


Two butts are better than one

by septemberashes



Series: crack reituki [2]
Category: the GazettE
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Jokes, Comedy, Crack, Crossdressing, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Warning: Shiroyama Yuu, Warning: Suzuki Akira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septemberashes/pseuds/septemberashes
Summary: “Will you play the role of my boyfriend, please?”“What.” It doesn’t even come out as a question.“Look, it’s just for a day, so that my old man finally fucks off-”“You can’t be fucking serious, can you?” he cuts Akira off, staring at the blond as if the other man is an imbecile or something. “I barely know you, dude.”“I’ve wrecked both your car and your asshole, tell me how much closer can two people get to know each other?”





	Two butts are better than one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_duck_bride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_duck_bride/gifts).



> Sooooooo this is the birthday fic for my amazing beta @the_duck_bride. Thank you so much for your hard work, ilysm ♡
> 
> This is the sequel to 'Tinderella Strikes Back' and if you haven't read that oneshot, this one probably won't make much sense tbh. 
> 
> Warnings: not beta-ed, recreational drug use, lots of cussing/insensitive/homophobic language, crossdressing. Also, don't even bother looking for logic here, because there's none lol.

Takanori lets his eyes slither across the screen of his phone in a slow, languid motion, trying to absorb the asinine shit that the guy he swiped right has recently sent him.

 

_“Are you my homework? ‘Cos I’d do you on my desk ;)”_

 

2/10. It’s true that he feels extra generous today, but nevertheless doesn’t dignify that lame attempt at getting into his pants with a reply, so he closes this (one-sided) chat to check on the other ones. It’s already been a week since he got laid and so far there haven’t been any potential candidates that could fit his narrow taste in men. ‘Then how come he has so many ongoing conversations?’ - one will ask once they’ve taken a look at his Tinder. Well, this question should be directed at the black-haired bane of his existence instead, who is currently wiping Takanori’s dining table with his bony ass despite the host’s fervent protests not to do so.

 

Recently, Shiroyama has found it utterly amusing to swipe right to every single guy he sees on Matsumoto’s Tinder, causing the latter’s phone to constantly explode with messages during lectures. Although it was merely child’s play, the younger man seriously needs to consider changing his passcode before Yuu does something irreparable that will probably haunt him till the end of his life. He still hasn’t exactly forgiven the elder for secretly changing Matsumoto’s normal phone ringtone into a gay-porn actor’s orgasmic voice, only to purposely give Takanori a call in the middle of his family dinner, nearly sending his poor mother into a cardiac arrest as a result.

 

It appears that if this brunet asshole was to rank his hobbies, pranking Takanori would only be second to dick sucking. Or maybe third, since his top one would _still_ be dick sucking but with another hole instead. You do the math.

 

However, just like him, Shiroyama is currently suffering from a dry spell, so resorts to an even more infuriating activity of moaning and groaning about how he’s about to die out of boredom unless someone gives him his ‘elixir of life’; which can be translated into layman terms as ‘semen’, though Matsumoto sincerely thinks that the elder’s severe case of sperm intoxication has already caused semen to replace the cerebrospinal fluid in his sorry excuse of a brain.

 

In fact, Shiroyama is such a done case that there’s no point for the other to waste his precious time analysing his whore of a friend. No one knows what devil possessed that guy, there’s no way to compute how his brain is wired, so one just has to come to terms with his idiosyncratic thinking. Shiroyama can effectively visit a church and ask the reverend for the ‘glory hole’ in all his seriousness and not because he wants to defile this holy place with such heresy, and Takanori will probably take it at face value.

 

Still, he’d better unmatch with these weirdos before Shiroyama can replenish his collection and, in essence, prevent a flood of disgusting ‘ _let my cock be the yin to the yang in your butthole_ ’ or worse, ‘ _you look like you’re eight inches tall and guess what? I’ve got eight inches above my balls_ ’ in his inbox.

 

However, while he’s in the middle of deleting his old chats, a month-old conversation with a certain someone catches his attention.

 

The car-crashing asshole with a pierced dick, the one who nearly sent his _baby_ over to the heavens; likewise, with Matsumoto’s ass, though he supposes it didn’t exactly mind that kind of sent-off…

Anyway.

 

Takanori spends quite some time hypnotising their chat, as if invoking a new message to pop up, though abandons that activity afterwards, in favour of studying the man’s icon anew: a ridiculously looking visual kei wannabe glares back at him, with a botched make up, a crow’s nest on his head and a stupid bandana covering the better half of his face. Truly, far from a boner-inducing picture, so Takanori – with his benevolent nature – should suggest the other to change it asap. And before he can even deliberate potential consequences, his fingers are already punching in words that shouldn’t be appearing in their chat in the first place.

_“Change your profile picture or you won’t get laid anytime soon.”_

 

He puts down his phone with a smirk, turning around to the brunet fiend, who is still royally spreading his ass all over Takanori’s beautiful table. A grimace quickly returns to Matsumoto’s face.

 

“No, seriously, get your dirty ass off my table, Shiroyama. For your information, people eat there.”

 

“ _For your information, people eat there_ ,” the elder mimics him in an exaggerated high-pitched voice and then counters, “I guess having your _ass_ eaten there is ok then?”

 

Takanori’s reply consists of an eloquent grunt accompanied by an even more eloquent middle finger gesture. Whatever it is, the longhaired fucker has a point. Truly as he just said, Matsumoto’s last date ended up with him poetically spread open on this very same dining table while his date’s head moved no less poetically between his asscheeks. He spent the next morning meticulously scrubbing that table in hope of eliminating any potential colony of E.coli left on its surface. His ass is still eventually an ass, not matter how gorgeous it is, and unlike men, bacteria aren’t very selective of things they colonise.

 

He gives up on knocking some sense into Shiroyama and reverts his attention to his phone. Zero new messages. Then again, why should he expect the other to reply him immediately? An upper class boy like the blond probably has upper class things to do; for example, playing golf with his daddy’s friends at some country club. Takanori snorts, wondering if the guy’s potentially influential father knows about his _actual_ hobbies and preferences, which similarly consist of hitting balls and clubs but of a completely different kind.

 

The last thing Matsumoto needs is for this patriarch to find out about him and accuse him of making his precious successor fall prey to his homosexual machinations. Maybe that’s the reason why the poor guy resorts to such drastic camouflage on hook up apps, so as to complicate his daddy’s tracing of his activity, because the blond looked nothing like that in flesh.

 

Despite his shitty driving skills and personality, he – Matsumoto must admit – looked rather splendid. But Takanori isn’t the type to chase others, so instead of waiting for the other man’s reply like a lovesick teenager, he grabs Koron, who was making tiny rounds beneath his owner’s chair, chasing his tail like any intelligent dog does, and heads for the bathroom.

 

“I’m going to give Koron a bath,” he informs his pest-for-a-friend and then warns, “Don’t touch anything.”

 

“Uh-huh,” comes a bored but surprisingly compliant reply. Takanori has a hard time believing it at first but proceeds to the bathroom anyway, with Koron tucked under his armpit.

 

Thankfully, his dog has grown used to having baths, so he has no trouble running water over him. He quickly bathes Koron, trying to concentrate on preventing the shampoo from getting into his dog’s eyes, but soon loses focus when the thoughts of the asshole with the pierced dick returns to him. In reality, Takanori is well acquainted with the other man’s real name, though can’t help but think that ‘Akira’ is too common and bland for someone with such a…unique feature. But there’s no way he’s going to refer to this guy by his stupid nickname on his Tinder, now that there’s the lesser of two evils to choose.

 

So Akira it is.  

 

And will he reply Matsumoto or just give the younger man the ‘seen’ treatment? Since Tinder-based relationships don’t necessarily boast with their longevity?

 

Lost in his musings, he dries Koron with a towel harsher than necessary, drawing a loud yelp from the dog. This definitely snaps him back to reality, and he immediately apologises to his baby, caressing the dog’s damp fur and cooing at him. Somehow, this habit of him (one-sidedly) conversing with his dog has always been the butt of Shiroyama’s jokes; with the brunet openly declaring that he sincerely doubts Matsumoto’s intelligence when the younger man does this. On the other hand, Takanori believes that for a nitwit that associates the word ‘doggie’ with a certain sex position Shiroyama should take a look in the mirror first before he says anything to Matsumoto.

 

When Takanori comes out of the bathroom, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that his apartment hasn’t turned upside down with him being away for fifteen minutes.

 

There’s a minute difference, however, which he cannot pinpoint at the first glance, but soon his stomach drops when it dawns on him that his phone has moved from its original position on his sofa. Together with his unwelcome guest, who was occupying his dining table before.

 

He seriously considers killing the longhaired idiot if he ‘accidentally’ sexts Takanori’s dad again.

 

Two minutes later, Matsumoto finds the brunet typing something vigorously on _his_ phone, with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, as he lies on his stomach on _his_ bed and kicks his legs back and forth.

 

“Oi!”

 

“Hey, you didn’t tell me that you’re talking to this guy again!” Shiroyama pouts angrily, feigning a hurt expression although Matsumoto should be the one fuming right now. However, instead of starting a diatribe, he merely snatches his phone away from the other man’s hands.

 

“I literally just sent him a message half an hour ago.” And nearly faints when he scrolls down the conversation. “What the fuck did you do?!” he doesn’t bite back a shriek.

 

“No need to thank me,” Yuu chirps, genuinely believing that he’s some good Samaritan who deserves a separate section in the Bible for his feat. “But, of course, I’ve already taken my payment: you won’t be the only one getting the dick today since we’re going on a double date later at 4pm.”

 

“Wait, what-“ Takanori doesn’t even get to finish reading the conversation between Akira and ‘him’. At this point, his brain refuses to process what the fuck is going on, so he just stares at the screen dumbly. “Me getting dick? A double date? 4pm today? _What_?”

 

“Exactly!” The same shit-eating grin doesn’t disappear from Shiroyama’s face; who then leaves the comfort of Matsumoto’s bed to walk over to the full-length mirror by the wall. “He actually asked you for a favour, so I requested that, in return, him brings along his _unbearably_ hot friend, whom I saw in one of his pictures.” A frown then suddenly appears on the brunet’s normally cheerful face. “Though he told me that his friend is straight. And I’m not sure if the hot guy knows that half of the people who browse his dear friend’s photos wank to his face instead.” But before Takanori can digest this extra bit of information and say something in retort, he carries on excitedly, “so that’s why I’m coming to the date dressed up as a girl!”

 

When Yuu finishes speaking, Takanori finally stops gaping like a fish and then slumps into his chair, still in utter disbelief to what just happened.

 

“So you’re saying that,” he starts slowly, trying to break down what he’s understood so far. “I have a date with the pierced asshole because I agreed to fulfill his favour?” He looks at his friend expectantly, waiting for the other to correct him but nothing comes his way. “And you’re tagging along, donned in women’s clothes, because you want to hook up with his straight friend, who’s coming along with him?” and gets a shameless nod in response.

 

In despair, Matsumoto covers his face with his palms and lets out a pained groan.

 

“No, Shiroyama, _no_.”

 

To what the brunet just smiles at himself in the mirror, admiring his own reflection in a completely carefree manner.

 

“Yes, Shiroyama, _yes_.”

__________________________________________________________________________ 

 

He could have just easily apologised to Akira for the shit-for-brains’ unsolicited conversation pretending to be him, but somehow a part of him is secretly ecstatic about seeing this guy again, as if fortune has finally smiled at him during this dry spell. Maybe Shiroyama isn’t a waste of air and space after all, and Takanori should let him play god every now and then if it benefits Matsumoto. Right now, he doesn’t even mind bringing the elder along even though Shiroyama has a flair for ruining things in the end.

 

Yuu is supposed to camouflage as a woman today, to woo his straight target and even if he succeeds, Takanori has no idea how things are going to turn out when the guy removes Shiroyama’s underwear, only to have _‘fap-fap, it’s a trap!’_ slapped in his face. But he guesses that’s solely stupid brunet’s problem, not his to deal with. You reap what you sow. Meanwhile, Matsumoto will just indulge in the pierced dick again and gloat over his friend’s misery when Shiroyama has to face the music for deceiving the other guy.

 

They arrive at the coffee shop ten minutes earlier their scheduled time, since according to Shiroyama, ‘it’s a faux pas for a lady to be late’. The dumbfuck is currently sporting a little black dress with a plunging V-neck for his nonexistent rack; his toned legs are clad in thigh high boots and face covered in a copious amount of make up, as if he’s prepared to hustle. Oh well, whatever floats his boat – Takanori isn’t the one fucking him in the end.

 

The troublesome duo waits for another ten minutes, in between Takanori’s anxious tapping on the table surface and Shiroyama’s conceited selfies on Instagram, which he captions with _‘RPDR newest contestant ;)’_ , when the other party finally appears at the coffeeshop’s entrance.

 

Takanori recognises at least one of the two and feels as if his eyes are going pop out of their sockets.

 

“Oh god.”

 

And hears an even more excited “oh god, indeed” next to him.

 

Out of all people Akira could be friends with, it has to be Takanori’s senpai – a graduate student at his university.

 

_Is this even real life?_

 

Though Takanori can’t say that he’d recognise Takashima Kouyou without his usual thick-rimmed glasses and poorly bleached hair - and instead with a partially shaved side and pierced ears if he sees the elder on the streets, there’s no mistaking that it is his senior standing right before him.

 

And the cross-dressing shit-for-brains beside Matsumoto seems to really dig his senpai’s look since he drools enough to fill a ten-litre bucket.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Matsumoto-kun,” Kouyou seems rather surprised, but nevertheless gives him a friendly smile. “Who could have guessed that **you** were the victim of Akira’s horrendous driving a month ago? I’m really sorry about that,” he says, completely dismissing his friend’s pointed glare directed at him.

 

“Eh, it’s no big deal, senpai.” Takanori smiles sheepishly, still unable to believe that his seemingly nerdy senior could have such an extreme transformation over their break and associate himself with someone like Akira…who looks rather dashing with properly styled hair, in his infamous leather jacket and without that stupid noseband from his profile picture.

 

And with the Prince Albert in those pants, of course. Which makes Takanori wonder if Takashima-senpai also has something else pierced besides his ears…

_No no no no no. **Bad** thoughts. _

“Is your dick also pierced?” someone else voices out his thoughts instead, and Takanori nearly chokes on his orange juice upon hearing his friend’s question. Said in his normal male voice as well.

 

Conversely, he receives a suspicious look from Akira, who mouths _‘also?’_ at him, whereas Kouyou stares at Yuu in shock, caught off-guard by such a blunt question, from a ‘lady’ no less; with a pretty deep voice, in addition to that.

 

“Oh sorry,” but there isn’t even a trace of remorse in that fucker’s expression, as he grins and quickly rectifies his little mistake by increasing the pitch of his voice, not so subtly though. “Shiroyama _Yuki_ , by the way.” And Takanori tries hard not to snort loudly because they didn’t even get to rehearse this. Let’s see how far the idiot’s ad-libbing gets him.

 

“Takashima Kouyou.” Shock is no longer evident on Takashima’s face, though there’s still a faint hint of amusement in his voice as he speaks. “That was very, erm…straightforward?”

 

“I don’t beat around the bush,” Shiroyama states huskily and flips his long hair in – what it meant to be – seductive manner, only to get several of his black strands in both Matsumoto’s face and drink.

 

“And I like it.” Kouyou smirks, epically oblivious to the fact that part of the brunet’s hair is now dripping with orange juice or that his kouhai’s currently trying to get those loose strands out of his mouth.

 

Takanori reckons his senpai needs his thick-rimmed glasses now more than ever.

 

“Say,” Yuu squints mischievously. “What if we were to get to know each other better while the gay lovebirds over here-” he gives Takanori and his dick appointment a sly glance as he speaks, “have their gay talk in peace?”

 

“Sounds like a plan.” The same, uncharacteristic to him, smirk graces Kouyou’s lips again, causing Takanori to feel like he’s been deceived his whole life. Who knew his nerdy-looking senpai would be like _this_ in real life? Don’t judge the book by its cover, huh.

 

When the two of them finally leave to gods know where – though Takanori believes that he’ll receive an address of some love hotel a few hours later when it’s time to pick Yuu up – Akira, too shocked to say anything before, finally comes back to life. His face stops imitating a .jpg file when he moves his mouth:

 

“So yeah, the _deal_ ,” Akira feigns a cough. “Sorry for such an impromptu request since I’m sure you just expected to shag-”

 

“Yeah-yeah, say it even louder so that everyone here can hear us,” grumbles Takanori, feeling how the number of inquisitive glances directed at their table starts to increase.

 

Akira snorts. “Didn’t prevent you from acting like a hysterical bitch in public when you demanded payment for your car.”

 

“It concerned my baby and that’s the matter of life and death to me,” The other male defends his past behaviour with a huff. Although Matsumoto’s happy to finally get his oh-so-needed dick appointment, a gut feeling tells him that it won’t go down that smoothly. A ‘deal’, he says?

 

“So,” the blond starts again, this time round sheepishly scratching the back of his head as if he’s about to say something embarrassing. “As you can see, I come from a pretty, um, well-off family-”

 

“Hard to miss when you have a chauffeur picking you up in an import car,” Takanori sneers, recalling the nine thousand yen course meal and the VIP suite at Ritz-Carlton as well.

 

Akira rolls his eyes at those words. “Anyway, because my family is so… _influential_ and I’m their only son, they are forcing an omiai (1) on me. And as you can see-”

 

“-your dick only comes to life seeing his fleshy brethren instead of a vagina, yep, I know this.”

 

“Weren’t you the one worried about people hearing us?” Akira cocks his eye questioningly at the other man.

 

“Well, it’s too late now since the damage has already been done.” Takanori lets out a sigh, having heard people whisper about them midway through their conversation. On the other hand, it has probably started as soon as Yuu opened his goddamned mouth. “Anyway, how does your arranged marriage concern me?”

 

He nearly jolts in his seat upon seeing Akira put his palms together imploringly.

 

“Will you play the role of my boyfriend, please?”

 

“What.” It doesn’t even come out as a question.

 

“Look, it’s just for a day, so that my old man finally fucks off-”

 

“You can’t be fucking serious, can you?” he cuts Akira off, staring at the blond as if the other man is an imbecile or something. “I barely know you, dude.”

 

“I’ve wrecked both your car and your asshole, tell me how much closer can two people get to know each other?”

 

….And he has a point. Takanori hates it when someone other than him is right.

 

“Fair enough,” he concedes reluctantly, but still not ready to give in to such a spontaneous request from someone he has only met once (sort of). “But you have to tell me why should I agree to this in the first place.”

 

“Because I’ll pay you for this,” Akira replies with all his seriousness. “I also know how much you enjoyed the Prince Albert and the lobster with black truffle tagliolini at that Italian restaurant.”

 

Damn it.

 

Matsumoto Takanori is _not_ some kind of prostitute! However, being poor _and_ horny is hard indeed.

 

“So…what would you like me to wear to your family dinner?”

__________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Akira’s family house is located in the western outskirts of Tokyo and it’s a traditional-looking mansion inside a massive compound. There’s a big pond with koi fish, which probably costs more than Takanori’s organs altogether if he were to sell them on the black market; a bonsai garden more kempt than him before going for his job interviews, as well as myriads of sinister-looking men, who look like they are ready to pounce on him and rip him apart.

 

“What was your last name again?” he asks Akira.

 

“It’s Suzuki.”

 

Of course, it is.

 

“Suzuki Akira, I knew you were filthy rich, not that your dad is a fucking yakuza boss!” Takanori cries, not entirely sure what he has gotten himself into. “Now it makes sense why I’m donned in these garbs, which no one’s been wearing since the Edo period.” He scowls at his black kimono; its material is undeniably first-grade but the style…ugh. It’s almost like he’s one of those samurai figurines come alive. All what’s left to do is shave his pate and make a topknot with his remaining hair to complete the chonmage (2) look.

 

Gross.

 

“Well, now you do.” Akira smirks back at him. “Anyway, the old fart awaits us in the living room,” he informs the other, as they both walk along the cobblestone path to the main house. “When you see him, don’t forget to perform the dogeza (3).”

 

“I’m here as your ‘boyfriend’, not to ask for a favour from him.”

 

“Same shit,” the other shrugs and nods at his father’s underlings who bow at him as he walks past them. “If he doesn’t like you or finds out that you’re a fraud, good luck shielding yourself from his katana.”

 

Takanori gulps, knowing that it’s probably not an empty threat, but nonetheless refuses to show his fear. “Oh yeah, and your father probably doesn’t know that his son and sole successor has his ochinchin (4) pricked for non-yakuza purposes.”

 

“You know you enjoy it, brat.” Akira immediately snaps at him.

 

“Hearing this from one,” Takanori huffs in rebuttal.             

 

Two underlings slide open the doors for them, the scowls on their faces signifying disapproval of their young master’s choice of partner who can’t exactly become their ane-san (5) in near future. Takanori, however, tries not to get intimidated by them.

 

They take off their shoes before entering the vestibule larger than Matsumoto’s apartment, then walk along winding hallways partitioned by paper sliding doors. The interior of the house is certainly done in the best Japanese tradition, with two words describing it perfectly: ‘luxurious’ and ‘spacious’. When they finally reach their final destination, Akira knocks on the door and then slides it open when he hears a loud grunt from the other side.  

 

As soon as Takanori sets his foot inside, his eyes rake over antique porcelain vases and gold Buddha statues decorating this vast living room, mentally calculating how much he can earn if he gets his hands on them.

 

Student’s loans paid off at an instant. Amazing.

 

A cough brings him back from his reverie and he’s faced with a scowling middle-aged man, who is radiating with such dark aura that Takanori nearly shat a brick when the other looked up at him. _Must be the head of this scowling association_ , Matsumoto quips to himself, in an attempt to calm himself down. _But seriously, this is probably_ _the Suzuki group’s kumicho_ (6).

 

But whoever he is, there’s no fucking way Takanori will be touching his head to the floor in prostration since it’s going to ruin his perfectly done hair, so instead just opts for a customary bow. A strong nudge in his ribs, however, forces him to bend over a bit more he’d like to – Matsumoto is long used to bending over, but not really in this kind of situations. He nevertheless tries not to grimace in pain too much when he tries to plaster a smile to his face.

 

“Good evening, kumicho-sama.”

 

And gets a derisive ‘hmpf’ in response. The boss narrows his eyes, scrutinising the petit male’s form. “Not only does my son like fags, but also prefers vertically challenged ones.”

 

“The fuck you said-” momentarily forgetting where he is, Matsumoto is about to start a tirade for touching his sensitive topic but gets interrupted by another painful nudge.

 

“Ruki-”

 

“Takanori,” he quickly corrects Akira in between his wheezing. Now it’s not time for him to get riled up over some rude-ass old fart’s comment. Meanwhile, the blond dumbfuck didn’t even bother to ask Takanori for his real name and stupidly used his Tinder nickname. Fuck, Akira had better pay generously for this farce; and Takanori’s hospital bills if he ends up cracking the younger man’s ribs in the end with his bloody nudging. “It’s Matsumoto Takanori, sir.”

 

“Akira, are you sure you aren’t just doing this to piss me off?” The head of the Suzuki group glares at his son, who cowers slightly from this, but nevertheless stands his ground. “You don’t have to resort to such disgusting extremes for rebelling purposes.”

 

Oh boy. How presumptuous.

 

“Of course not, father!” Akira protests louder than necessary and then pulls Takanori into an embrace so crushing, that the younger man already thinks about which bed he wants to occupy in a hospital ward. The elder, however, doesn’t seem to notice the other’s discomfort and simply squeezes him tighter while declaring, “I love Ru-I mean Takanori and only want to be with him!” almost tearfully, that Matsumoto mentally awards him with an Oscar through his pain. “Also, father, may we take a seat already?”

 

“Go ahead,” the boss replies tensely, his hawk eyes still fixated on Takanori when the two of them take a seat at the table. The servants soon serve them dinner. Takanori’s eyes bulge at the surplus of luxurious food served to them, starting from Kobe beef slices and ending with fresh sturgeon caviar. He, however, tries not to drool like Shiroyama does over Takashima-senpai and acts as civilised as he can. Seems like a task more impossible than stopping global warming, but he smiles widely as if pegs gripped the corners of his lips.

 

“So, Matsumoto,” the head of the Suzuki group starts again, putting down his chopsticks. “How long have you known my boy?”

 

“Two years,” he instantly blurts out. _One month, actually._ Sorta.

 

“And you’re okay with him sleeping around behind your back?” The patriarch raises his brow skeptically.

 

Uh-oh. Takanori isn’t sure how exactly this transpired. “He cheats on me?” he asks and immediately feigns a scandalised look.

 

“Father-”

 

“You seriously can’t be thinking I’m not aware of your whereabouts on Saturday nights?” The family head shoots an incredulous stare at his son. “Grow some brains and stop swiping your credit card in those love hotels.”

 

Takanori scoffs under his breath, marveling at the pallor spreading across Akira’s face.

 

“And you-” The boss narrows his eyes suspiciously at Takanori. “You look way too calm for someone who’s just been told that their partner is cheating on them.”

 

“Oh shit.” Matsumoto is startled by that astute observation. “That’s right.”

 

And before he can realise what he’s about to do, a loud ‘smack’ rings through the room, as his palm lands flat against Akira’s cheek.

 

“How could you?!” he suppresses a chortle, seeing Akira’s flabbergasted look as the elder palms his cheek in pain. Serves him right for nearly punching through Takanori’s ribcage earlier. “I’ve given you all my love and _this_ is how you treat me? Even cutting off your pinky in penance-no! Even _seppuku_ won’t redeem you in my eyes.” He then looks away, covering his eyes with one hand and throwing the remaining one to the side dramatically.

 

Matsumoto’s lips almost twitch into a smirk when he hears the underlings’ hushed voices whispering _‘the younger master just got bitchslapped’_ and _‘holy shit, he’s even fiercer than our ane-san’_ among many other things.

 

Boy, looks like he can even give Di-fucking-Caprio a run for his money.

 

“Anyway, deal with this privately,” the family head grumbles, somewhat convinced with Takanori’s charade. “I still have a few more questions to ask you.” He doesn’t even spare his son a glance. “How did you two meet?”

 

“At university, sir.” _On a hook-up app._

 

“How exactly?”

 

“He ran into me.” _Ramming into my car then me._

 

“And what do you like about him?”

 

“His strength and determination.” _His pierced dick and money._

 

The boss contemplates for a moment.

 

“So you study at Todai as well, Matsumoto.”

 

“Same course as Kouyou, father.” Akira butts in, as if this extra information is going to give the younger man more credibility.

 

“Oh, the Takashima boy.” Surprisingly, the head’s voice softens and he sounds almost wistful when Takanori’s senpai is mentioned. “He’d make a good saiko-komon (7), you need to persuade him harder to join our group, Akira.” And then his expression reverts to his usual scowling one. “Although he looks like a fag, at least he digs the right body parts unlike you.”

 

Truth be told, that can be easily reversed if his senpai will somehow be _ok_ to proceed with Yuu after they remove their clothes. Moreover, the stupid brunet was dead set on getting the straight man bend to his charm.

 

In every sense of its meaning.

 

“But I love Takanori and nothing will change it,” Akira reiterates and, upon seeing his father’s questioning look, adds. “I mean, I’ve been really, um, _bad_ for cheating on him, but it’s **never** going to happen again. I swear.”

 

The elder Suzuki still doesn’t seem convinced, so in last resort, Akira cups Takanori’s face and pulls him into a kiss. Caught off-guard, the younger man doesn’t return the other’s ministrations right away, but shortly starts reciprocating under the gasps of group members until a firm thud against the table forces them to pull apart from each other.

 

“I said _privately_ ,” the yakuza grunts. “I don’t need to see this faggot crap happen in front of my face.” He then folds his arms across his chest. “And you slobbering all over my son means shit if you’re unable to answer my next question correctly.”

 

While Takanori feels apprehensive about what’s about to come, this nonetheless piques his interest.

 

“Yes, kumicho-sama?”

 

“What’s his favourite movie?”

 

The fuck?

 

Really?

Nevertheless the question has caught him unaware because he, honestly, knows almost next to nothing about Suzuki Akira besides the facts that he’s rich and has a pierced dick. Well, Matsumoto has also figured out what the other’s favourite sex position is but not his more PG-rated interests. Who the fuck even asks this kind of kindergarten questions at this age? He doesn’t even know what his own favourite colour is, for fuck’s sake.

 

For some unknown reason, Akira pales next to him again. Is this question really such a deal breaker?

 

 _Get cracking, stupid_ , Takanori chides himself. What kind of movie can possibly interest the blond? Maybe he should make an allusion to their occupation, since that would be the safest option?

 

“Well?” The boss looks at him expectantly.

 

“Erm…the Godfather?” Takanori makes a wild guess and then flinches, seeing the head’s darkened expression. Maybe the guy is a film connoisseur, so he should specify which part of the trilogy after all. “Only the first part, because its sequels were horrible.” But who doesn’t love the original movie? Even if it isn’t Akira’s favourite, it must have been at least in his top ten. The snort from Akira’s direction seems to have assuaged his fears. The blond also looks relieved as though the threat has passed. So did Takanori get it right?

 

“Hmm, no wonder he sleeps around behind your back,” the elder Suzuki suddenly says, on the contrary to what he expected. “You don’t even know what’s his favourite movie.”

 

Shit.

 

The pallor immediately returns to Akira’s face, and yet he keeps quiet, letting the other two lead this conversation.

 

“Really?” Takanori tries to play it cool, though he can already feel panic rise in him. Coming up with spontaneous answers is even harder, he’s never really been a great liar. Where was that promised katana again? Suzuki had better pay him double after this. “Well, that’s what he always begs me to watch-”

 

“Oh _really_?” The family head gives another one of his skeptical looks. “Because all he does on Friday nights when he’s not out manwhoring is-”

  
Now Akira looks utterly _horrified._ “Father-”

 

“-watch-”

 

“Wait!”

 

“-the-”

 

“Please!”

 

“-Lion King.”

 

Despite his blasé expression, Takanori itches to double up, clutch his stomach and have a fit. A fit of guffaws, that’s it. The expert eye would have long noticed the little twitch of his mouth, but he skillfully tenses his facial muscles, so as not to give away his glee.

 

As predicted, Akira next to him is now as red as a tomato.

 

 _Let’s see._ Seems like Matsumoto has got hid hands on a very interesting specimen: a yakuza boss’ son, who is a shit driver, has a dick piercing and obsesses over a Disney cartoon.

 

What a combo.

 

“Ah yes.” Takanori suppresses his smirk. “I’m aware of this cute hobby of his, but so far we’ve been watching, erm, adult stuff. After all, he’s going to succeed you, kumicho-sama, so he’s been needing some…inspiration.”

 

“Hn.” Again, the boss seems convinced enough with that reasoning. He then pushes away his bowl and chopsticks before rising from his seated cushion. “Anyway, I’ve got a meeting with another family head right now.” Matsumoto does mental somersaults, but his joy is not long lasting because the other continues, “I’d like you to stay over at our house tonight. We’ll continue this tomorrow morning.”

 

Goddamn it.

 

“Thank you for having me today, Suzuki-sama.” He nods nevertheless and then sighs in relief when the yakuza finally disappears behind the doors with the rest of his henchmen.

 

“Ouch! What was this for?” Akira snaps at him when he feels a painful pinch on his thigh.

 

Takanori first checks his surroundings, to see if they are actually alone now, and then hisses, “You said just for dinner.”

 

The elder scratches his head sheepishly. “Yeah, my old man is kinda untrusting. Look, he would even tell his men to check if I flushed the toilet until I was sixteen!”

 

“So why do I have to stay at yours?” the petit male huffs. “Can’t I just come back tomorrow morning? What for, by the way? Sakazuki exchange (8)?” He smirks.

 

“You wish.” Suzuki rolls his eyes at such a ridiculous suggestion. “But yeah, since we’re dating he’d expect us to have sex tonight.”

 

“ _Expects_?” Matsumoto repeats, scrunching up his face in disgust. “Gross, you have cameras in your room?”

 

“Of course not!” the elder immediately protests, looking flustered. “But his expectations are not groundless. It’d be weird if you wouldn’t want to shag.”

 

“Ugh, I guess there’s no other way.”

 

Takanori feels a headache coming in the horizon. What did Shiroyama get him into? At the same time, he wonders if his friend is faring better than he is: have they had sex yet? Or has Takashima already reached stage D, only to get spooked by the ‘D’ itself?

 

Anyway, Takanori has himself to worry about right now and probably needs to ask Akira about his hobbies tonight. And then face the boss like a man tomorrow morning, because how else he’s going to get all this compensation money? It’d better be worth it. “Also, what is your group’s specialty?”

 

“Drugs? I think.” Akira replies with slight hesitation.

 

As a good, law-abiding citizen, Takanori should probably hand this whole criminal organisation to the police.

 

What a pain in the ass.

 

“Suzuki, you’d better get me the purest grade of heroin that’s capable of wiping my memory clean when this nightmare ends.”

____________________________________________________________________ 

 

Akira’s bedroom isn’t all that different from Takanori’s or anyone else’s, who lives a normal civilian life for that matter: he has a futon, a desk and lighting in his room. Unless you discount the facts that his bedroom is about triple the size of Takanori’s one, his futon is softer than a baby’s butt, his desk is made of 10 000 USD/kg agar wood and his lights go on and off on clapping. Yeah, just about that.

 

They lie next to each other awkwardly in the semi-darkness. The whole of Suzuki compound seems to be asleep, with an exception for two resident cats that have decided that this is the prime time for them to vocalise their mating.

 

Speak of the felines.

 

“So, ‘The Lion King’, huh,” Takanori finally breaks the silence between them.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“This is ‘no judgement’ zone, brah, I play with my Barbie dolls during my time off uni too.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

“Make me.”

 

“Is it an invitation?”

 

Takanori wriggles his eyebrows in response, completely forgetting that it’s a tad too dark right now for the other man to see him do it anyway. His ears, however, pick up quiet shuffling behind the doors.

 

Wow, the boss even ordered his men to eavesdrop on them fucking. A truly terrifying man.

 

“I think it’s time I carry out my duty as your boyfriend, _young master_.”

 

“Good timing,” Akira replies with a laugh then crushes their lips together. What Takanori is definitely sure about Suzuki is that the blond is a making-out god: he kneads the younger man’s lips violently till Matsumoto feels the sweat ache spreading in his mouth and swirls his tongue so expertly in that hot cavern, to the point that all Takanori is able to do is moan in return; this time a little bit louder than necessary, to be convincing enough. Akira briefly pulls himself apart from the other, only to climb on top of Takanori and push his tongue deeper, as if trying to shove it all down the other man’s throat. The tongue fucking gets Matsumoto so hard that he starts grinding himself against the elder, the thin fabric of their yukatas becomes a barely negligible barrier separating them.

 

Akira shortly removes his garments, letting his cock out and allowing the metal ring in the urethra to glisten in the dark.

 

Taking this opportunity while he’s not being pinned down yet, Takanori finds his way to the other man’s crotch and nuzzles it; and then takes in a decent length into his mouth, his tongue making sweeping motions across the piercing. Suzuki hisses when Matsumoto starts to suck on the head hard while his fingers play with the elder’s balls.

 

Akira grabs Takanori’s shoulders and starts to harshly buck his hips into the petit man’s mouth, his ears drowning in the lewd symphony of slurping and moans. No one sucks dick like Tananori, that’s a given. Akira knows that he’ll end up coming like a pathetic virgin if Takanori keeps blowing him, so pulls out instead of letting the younger man finish his job. And if it was brighter here, he would have seen a seductive string of drool connecting Takanori’s swollen lips and the tip of his cock.

 

As for the main fun tonight, Takanori has decided that it’s time for him to take control. He reverses their positions by pushing Akira down and straddling the blond afterwards, his hand snaking to his back, reaching in between his asscheeks.

 

“Lube,” he orders with a breathy sigh as his index finger traces the crack teasingly. Akira surprisingly complies and fishes out the bottle of lube and a pack of condoms from underneath his futon, then squeezes out some of the gel-like substance on Takanori’s fingers.

 

Matsumoto preps himself slowly and teasingly with a lot of gasps and moans in between, as if he is doing it for show. His slick fingers slide in and out of his hole with an audible squelch, the muscles inside clamping down on his digits, reluctant to lose them. When he feels that his entrance is loose enough, he rolls the condom on Akira’s flesh and positions himself above it.

 

“Taking it like a champ today?” Akira asks him smugly.

 

“Try not to rip the condom,” the other one croons then shoves himself on the cock, letting out a tiny gasp at the way it spreads him inside. Akira isn’t exactly small, so it takes time for him to adapt although he’s probably a veteran in taking dicks, losing out only to Shiroyama. When the whole length lodges inside, Akira emits a loud growl and cups Takanori’s asscheeks, his nails digging in the younger’s flesh. Oh god, it feels so good the way Suzuki’s cock is spreading him so well and when he starts rocking his body up and down, the sensation only intensifies. After experimenting with different angles, he finally finds the best one that directs the barbell right against his prostate, causing him to emit a moan so lewd that his throat burns in shame, as he slams himself repeatedly on Akira’s cock, his thighs having the workout of their life – Matsumoto probably won’t have to return to his gym for at least another year.

 

Akira growls into his ear while helping the petit male keep the pace, his hands kneading the globes so hard that it will probably leave bruises tomorrow.

 

“Ah, so good, Akira, god _yes_ , fuck me like this!”

 

“You like it, don’t you, whore?” Akira keeps grunting, lifting Takanori up, only to impale him on his cock again, drawing a scream out of the smaller man.

 

“Keep fucking me, Akira, oh _fuck_!” Takanori can feel tears of pleasure brimming in his eyes when the pierced head keeps grinding forcefully against that sensitive gland; he instinctively spreads his legs even further apart and increases the pace. “Mmhm!”

 

Akira takes one of his nipples into his mouth, albeit sloppily due to Takanori’s frenzied up and down motion along the other’s slick cock. It feels so fucking good being stimulated at two fronts when Suzuki gives equal attention to both erect buds.

 

Takanori knows that he’s going to climax soon despite the lack of attention for his own cock, which is leaking like mad, leaving moist trails on both his and Akira’s stomachs – Suzuki’s cock is just too damn good.

 

Matsumoto keeps sliding up and down the elder’s cock until heat coils in his stomach, indicating the imminent release. “Oh god, don’t stop, Akira-” he almost begs the other although he’s the one taking the reins today, but keeps repeating this like a mantra, his eyes unfocused in the semi-darkness. With the last slam, the heat courses down his groin and he releases on both of their stomachs with a loud scream, capable of waking the boss on the other side of the mansion, while Akira needs a few more pumps before he growls in the crook of his neck and climaxes inside the condom.

 

Breathless, they assume their original position on the futon next to each other, with Takanori languidly swirling his finger in his own ejaculation smeared on Akira’s stomach.

 

He then slowly reaches out for Akira’s face, his fingers still soiled with cum, who in exhaustion doesn’t really register the other’s fingers in front of his face. He first assumes that Takanori just wants to be kinky and make Akira lick off his cum; which Suzuki doesn’t want to, of course, so feels relieved when Matsumoto’s fingers move above his mouth and-

 

Draw a circle on his fucking forehead.

 

With the little one’s cum.

 

“What the fuck?!”

 

“ _It’s the circle of life_ ,” Takanori says in a singsong voice, the lyrics straight out a certain Disney movie.

 

“Are you fucking serious right now.”

 

They then take notice of characteristic groans coming from the other side of the door, signifying that maybe the yakuza underlings didn’t mind their young master bringing a man home after all. Below are just a few excerpts of what they’ve heard:

 

_‘Fuck, that was hot.’_

_‘Who knew a man could make such lewd sounds!’_

_‘Hopefully, it wasn’t young master or else-‘_

_‘Idiot! Of course it was the little one!’_

_‘Shit, do you have spare pants? I think I soiled mine.’_

 

Takanori can only smirk in response.

 

“Hakuna matata, bitches,” he snickers into the darkness.

_______________________________________________________________________ 

 

“There’s some illicit activity going on in Shin-Kiba, so we need to curb it-”

 

“But it’s beyond Suzuki group’s jurisdiction-”

 

“Maybe we can ask ane-san’s group to help us?”

 

“My wife isn’t in Tokyo at the moment, and I’d rather not concern her with such petty disturbances.”

 

“But kumicho-sama! It may affect our business in Koto!”

 

“How many men are we talking about here?”

 

“About ten, including their leader.”

 

“Only ten people? And you lot can’t do anything about it by yourself?”

 

“That’s the thing, Suzuki-sama, nobody knows how these pricks look like-”

 

Takanori suppresses a yawn, which has been longing to escape his throat for the past hour. It’s fucking 6 am right now, and both him and Akira were rudely roused from their sleep to attend this ridiculous ‘board’ meeting. Despite their extravagant title and no less extravagant Armani costumes, there’s no mistaking that these men are just fancied up thugs – their mugs, which no plastic surgery can redeem, are a clear evidence of this.

 

Apparently, there’s some mini turf war going on near Suzuki’s territory, but Takanori has no idea how the hell it even concerns him – isn’t he just supposed to be Akira’s little boytoy, who has nothing to do with this bullshit yakuza business?

 

Moreover, these guys have proven not to have any sense of self-preservation by involving a complete _outsider_ in their business conversation. Which is a totally fap-worthy police material. The cops would probably jizz in their pants if Takanori were to present them this evidence…At the same time, the prospect of losing his head if the elder Suzuki finds out about Matsumoto ratting them out doesn’t necessarily humour him. Also, the money he gets from upholding this farce is far more impressive than the reward he’ll get from the police, which is a pat on his head at most.

 

Now, that’s what he calls ‘self-preservation’.

 

There’s a sudden vibration in his pocket and he fishes out his phone discreetly, taking a look at the new message from Shiroyama underneath the table.

 

He’s received a selfie of his longhaired friend doing the peace sign with Kouyou’s naked back visible in the background.

 

 _‘Ravaged’_ – the only word that follows after the photo, and Takanori snorts hard.

 

“Matsumoto, how do you think we should act in this situation?” the boss’ voice suddenly interrupts his musings, causing him to flinch in his seat and nearly drop his phone. Now every pair of eyes in this room is locked on him.

 

Fucking great.

 

“Father, he’s not even part of our group!” Akira, who was previously scratching his ass absentmindedly, suddenly comes to his defence. So touching, it almost made Takanori’s cock weep. “He’s just-”

 

But Akira doesn’t get to finish his sentence because the yakuza boss hurls his teacup at him across their table, without giving a single fuck that’s it’s his own son he just assaulted. Fortunately, the younger Suzuki has excellent reflexes and manages to avoid having a cup smashed against his face. Instead, the dainty ceramic vessel meets its end when it makes contact with the wall behind the blond with a loud smash, exploding into tiny shards that land next to the terrified Takanori, who prays to all existing gods for an answer to finally dawn on him.

 

“Well?” The boss gives him one of those expectant looks - Takanori doesn’t have to pay his doctor a visit to be diagnosed that he’s growing allergic to them.

 

“Kumicho-sama, I think Akira-kun is right,” a kind-looking man – Suzuki’s chief consultant and his right hand man - suddenly speaks up, taking pity on Matsumoto as he sees the lost expression findings its rightful place on the poor boy’s face. “This young lad is not a part of the family and-”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” the boss cuts his advisor off, truly baffled by such resistance towards his request. “Did I ask him to infiltrate North Korea and assassinate Kim Jong Un? No. All I’ve asked for was his opinion on this matter.”

 

Fair enough. Takanori seems to be placated by this explanation, however, words still refuse to leave their hideout in his throat.

 

“Cat got your tongue?” There’s a hint of condescension in the patriarch’s voice, and Matsumoto definitely doesn’t appreciate it.

 

“Well, I mean-um-maybe, I guess-” however, nothing coherent comes out as long as people still pierce him with their stares, the most derisive one belonging to the Suzuki boss. Next to him, Akira is mentally prepared to call for an ambulance since Takanori looks like he’s having a case of brain aneurysm.

 

“Funny how you were so much more eloquent yesterday.” The yakuza boss smirks. “Pathetic whippersnapper.”

 

_That’s it._

 

“Well, if you are so fucking wise then why are you even asking for a pathetic whippersnapper’s opinion?” Takanori snaps at the elder, completely forgetting his current situation.

 

Now Akira looks like he’s the one who needs the ambulance services the most.

 

Seeing everyone’s horrified expressions, Takanori’s initial bravado suddenly vanishes and he pales at the realisation of what he has just done:

 

He just flipped a yakuza boss.

A fucking yakuza boss.

_Mommy, seems like I’m going to heaven before you do after all._

“Brat! How dare you be so disrespectful towards our kumicho!” one henchman yells at him threateningly.

 

“Suzuki-sama, please let me kill him!”

 

“No, let me do it instead!”

 

“Let’s do _him_ first and then kill him!”

 

“ENOUGH!” the head barks, effectively shutting everyone up.

 

His eyes glint with some unknown emotion, raising goosebumps on Takanori’s skin.

 

“You have a very acrimonious tongue indeed, and that earlier bitchslap of yours was very impressive as well, to the point it reminded me of a certain fond memory.” He smiles cryptically, and Takanori reckons he’d rather not find out what the other meant by this. “But you have a misfortune of raising your voice at me, so I’ve no choice but punish you for this blunder.”

 

Takanori visibly gulps. Is he going to bide farewell to his pinky now?

 

“I’m going to send you and Akira to deal with that problem in Shin-Kiba.”

 

At these words, Matsumoto doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. On one hand, his finger is still intact and there’s no katana blade protruding from his body. On the other hand, he has to involve himself in some yakuza-related deal. With this on his record, he may as well forget about becoming a bureaucrat.

 

Akira, on the contrary, looks more or less relieved. Maybe it isn’t as bad as Takanori thinks.

 

“Get them the costumes,” the boss tells one of his underlings, who hastily bows and quickly scurries out of the room. Five minutes later, the man returns with a plastic bag in his hands and then spills its content on the tatami floor.

 

Seeing what he’s about to wear, Takanori mercilessly kills all the remaining hope within him and mentally adds zeros to the amount Akira already owes him.

__________________________________________________________________________

 

Later that day, they end up in some dilapidated warehouse with ten men surrounding them. And what’s worse? They are currently tightly bound and suspended from a crane hook. Takanori has never considered himself to be an acrophobic, but in anxiety, the blood has been slowly rushing away from his head, causing him to feel slightly faint; or at least give that henchman standing underneath him a wig made of his vomit, completely free of charge. The baldy could do with some hair, actually.

 

“Well-well, look who we’ve got here.”

 

A man clad in an eye-jarring acid yellow costume appears in their vision. With that long, bleached hair and haughty attitude, he must have been a host because there’s no way he fits the typical image of a yakuza. But whoever he is, Takanori swears he’s seen bums with more fashion sense than him.

 

“It seems like the current alignment of the moon and stars has been in my favour. Who would have known that I’d get my hands on Suzuki Akira, the sole heir and successor of the great Suzuki group, whose lineage the gynecologists trace back to-”

 

“You mean ‘genealogists’,” Matsumoto corrects him. This guy is as dumb as his clothing choices.

 

“Shut up, that’s exactly what I just said!” the other hisses at him, though Takanori doesn’t miss a faint blush creeping up the man’s cheeks. “Who are _you_ , anyway? His right hand man?”

 

“Right hand man?” Takanori quirks his brow. That’s a fair question. “I suppose I do replace his right hand in some sense-” but suddenly gets shushed by Akira.

 

“What do you want from us?” Suzuki asks the boss calmly, with no trace of fear in his eyes. Takanori is more than impressed with his bravery in this current situation. _Little Simba is all grown up, how cute._

 

“Me?” the other man asks with a small laugh. “What are _you_ two doing around my club?”

 

“Clubbing, duh?” Akira rolls his eyes.

 

“In a black unitard and stocking on your head?” The host looks at him incredulously.

 

“Told you it was a bad idea,” Takanori jeers at his companion but Akira simply brushes him off.

 

“Let the **man** handle this,” Akira reassures the younger one, causing the other to let out a snort in response. “So what are you going to do to us?”

 

The yellow-clad host claps his hands excitedly.

 

“So as I was saying, the alignment-”

 

“Save your soliloquies for yourself,” Suzuki interrupts the boss before he can carry on with his verbal diarrhea. “Just tell us what you want.”

 

Unable to share his impassioned speech, the said man briefly sinks in disappointment; however, an arrogant smirk shortly returns to his lips. He folds his arms against his chest and says, “Hmm, I was so excited to capture Suzuki’s heir that I didn’t have time to think of a punishment for you all.”

 

Is he fucking serious? Oh well, at least it will buy the duo some time, allowing them to brainstorm a plan of their escape. Because there’s no way Matsumoto Takanori will rot in a place like this, under the hands of some rotten yakuza as well! That’s right, he needs to think fast…

 

“How influential is your group?” Takanori turns his head towards Akira; his sudden shift is so jerky that it makes him slightly light-headed. He tries not to barf on the guy underneath him although that won’t be too bad of an idea.

 

“I guess, like the Yamaguchi-gumi of Kobe,” Suzuki replies. “I mean my old man and the current head are sort of besties.”

 

Takanori shivers at the imagination of two middle-aged men gossiping elatedly on the phone as they drawl out that disgusting ‘hey girlfraaaan’ to each other.

 

“He just prefers to stay low profile.” Akira would have shrugged if he hadn’t been bound so tightly right now.

 

“Does this mean that this piss-coloured clown over there is in deep shit if he hurts you?”

 

“Kinda, I guess.”

 

No wonder Akira has been more or less calm about this whole ordeal. The big boss can easily crush this pesky cockroach of a host, so what’s the point of him sending them over here? Just to test Takanori out?

 

“Oi, you,” Matsumoto calls for the host’s attention, who was currently deep in thought about types of torture he should subject them to. “You clearly know who you’re dealing with, right?”

 

“Of course.” The man almost looks insulted. “The great Suzuki, the lineage of which the gy-”

 

“Yeah-yeah, we got it,” Matsumoto cuts him off. “What I’m asking is that do you know the implications of your actions?”

 

The host puts his index finger to his lips, as if contemplating though Takanori reckons that thinking only causes further brain damage to him. Honestly, Matsumoto feels like his IQ drops every time the dumbass opens his mouth.

 

“Hmmmm, the great Suzuki kumicho will have to bow to me in fear because I have his only son as my hostage?”

 

Akira looks at the host as though he just proclaimed that 2+2=5. “Do you really think my father will cower in fear before the likes of you?”

 

“Wait, let me do it-” Takanori looks at him horrified because he’s supposed to be the one leading this conversation, not Akira. “Hey-”

 

“There’s no way he’d bat an eyelid at this,” the blond says proudly despite Takanori’s protests.

 

“Oh, I see,” the host says pensively, then shrugs nonchalantly. “Ok, guess we can kill them later then.”

 

“Shit,” that’s all Akira can muster after realising his major fuck up.

 

Meanwhile, Takanori groans in despair.

________________________________________________________________________ 

 

This time they are locked up in a smaller room in the farthest part of the warehouse, and it seems to be the room where this group stores their drugs. A few days ago, Takanori would have made a cuckoo sign at anyone who told him that one day he’d be sharing a room with kilograms of cocaine, but here he is, in isolation with kilos of cocaine surrounding him. He isn’t sure if this host just ran out of space or simply stupid.

 

Or maybe he’s just going crazy right now because there’s a dumb excuse of a thug trying to execute him out there and yet he doesn’t feel as alarmed as he should be.

 

Has the cocaine already diffused into his brain?

 

Both he and Akira are now unbound as well, since apparently they aren’t posing any threat to that little group. They were searched up first, of course. And Suzuki, he must have been-

 

“Oi!” Glaring, Takanori smacks the blond sitting next to him, who was arranging cocaine into three separate lines with a credit card. “This is not the time to indulge!!”

 

“If we’re going to die, at least we’ll die while high.” Akira pouts, rubbing the abused spot on his head.

 

“No one is dying, at least not _me_!” Matsumoto hisses then takes away Suzuki’s credit card. “And why do you have this shit on you?”

 

“For situations like this, isn’t it obvious?” Akira looks at him as if Takanori is a retard.

 

Perhaps Suzuki is already beyond his help. Maybe he should actually write his thesis on diffusion of drugs through air when he gets out of here. What’s more curious, however, is that Suzuki has managed to hide things away from the thugs, even though they had a full body search done on them. “What else do you have in here?”

 

Akira takes off his unitard and pulls down his boxers, demonstrating how very well endowed he is in certain places. Takanori tries hard not to drool at the piercing as well – there’s time and place for such things.

 

“Shit, where’s my lighter?” Akira threads his fingers through the dark tuft of hair decorating his nether regions. “Pretty sure I’ve hidden it here.”

 

“Ugh, I believe it’s right there.” Scrunching up his face, Takanori points at the zippo lighter peeking from beneath the other’s underwear on the floor. “I can’t believe you decided to hide it _there_ out of all places.”

 

“Better than inside my ass.” Suzuki shrugs. “And they didn’t manage to find it, so I’d say I did a pretty damn good job at hiding things.”

 

Except that they had their phones confiscated, so there’s no way they can contact Akira’s dad for help. And what can they do with a simple lighter?

 

If Takanori’s memory doesn’t betray him, there were a few petrol jerrycans outside. He could possibly set this whole place aflame and either die in the fire with everyone else or get charged for arson. _Either way, amazing prospects await you, Matsumoto_. That baldy’s head is definitely brighter than his future. If Takanori survives, maybe he can say in self-defence that he has been abducted in the first place? And that it was the cocaine fumes that made him do this?

 

The problem is, if they indeed want to get out of here alive, they will need to act before the host decides on their execution method.

 

“Akira, did you change your boxers today?” Takanori interrupts his companion’s exciting activity of lovingly hypnotising the untouched lines of coke as if they were his newborns.

 

“Not yet, had no time to shower this morning,” the other replies sheepishly. “Why?”

 

“Because I have a brilliant idea.”

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

 

“Please hear us out!” Takanori continuously bangs on the huge metal door separating them and an underling, who’s supposed to be guarding them. It has to be that baldy as well, how convenient.

 

“What is it, brat?!” the underling screams back at him from the other side. “Let the boss think of your execution in peace!”

 

“I need to take a leak, like right now!” Takanori begs him, hoping the other will catch his bait.

 

“Tsk, hold it.” However, the man just clicks his tongue in irritation.

 

“I can’t!” the petit man insists. “My bladder will burst and I’ll kick the bucket before your boss can do anything to me.”

 

“I said I don’t give a fuck, go relieve yourself in this room if you must.”

 

How predictable. Takanori smirks to no one in particular.

 

“Oh well, guess I’ll do that, if you insist,” he croons, his eyes squinting mischievously. “I hope your clients like cocaine infused with urine.”

 

At these words, the door instantly slams open, and the angry-looking baldy appears at the entrance. “Come out!” he urges Takanori, who only gives him a sly grin in response. “Wait, where’s the Suzuki bra-”

 

“Ciao motherfucker!” Akira appears from the side and shoves his underwear at the henchman’s face who then screams, trying to swat the undergarment away, only to have Takanori kick his balls with all his might as if his whole life depends on it (and it actually does) - Matsumoto didn’t expect his career of a striker for his old middle school soccer team to come in handy.

 

The man doubles in agony, and Akira uses this opportunity to strike him in the head. Unconscious, he drops down to the floor. Takanori quickly fumbles with his pants in search for his gun and then frowns a little.

 

“I actually don’t know how to use this.” He picks up the weapon with the tip of his fingers.

 

“Give it to me,” Akira says in all his seriousness and that convinces Takanori to pass him the weapon without wavering. Suzuki is a yakuza thoroughbred after all.

 

Matsumoto still sincerely hopes that they wouldn’t have to pull the trigger on anyone today. Suzuki agrees not to use it yet and covers the gun with their stockings. Sucks that no one has designed unitards with pockets yet.

 

A moment later, the host and the rest of his underlings appear by the door, responding to the earlier commotion.

 

“What do you two think you’re doing?” The boss raises his brow at them, seeing one of his men knocked out cold while two brats are crouching by him. “Are you planning to take us on by yourselves?”

 

“No, but we demand a parley,” Akira says.

 

“Hmm, you’ve put me in a bind.” The host scratches his chin pensively. If he wants to play yakuza, a wannabe like him will want to follow the rules of the real yakuza, who don’t call themselves a ‘chivalrous group’ for nothing. “What’s your condition?”

 

Takanori clears his throat demonstratively.

 

“So we tried some of your coke, well, at least Akira did.” He points at the remnants of the drug on the floor. “And you know that Suzuki-sama is the Pablo Escobar of Tokyo, so surely his heir will know what’s good.”

 

“Boss, he’s talking shit-” one of the underlings is about to protest.

 

“Shut up!” the host silences his man, then turns to Takanori, who does a mental somersault.

 

The petit man has clearly hit the jackpot.

 

“Go on,” the boss signals him to continue.

 

“What we’re saying is that your stash is shit,” Akira says matter-of-factly.

 

“Shit?” The boss gives them a scandalised look. “Boy, I’ve got my hands on the best batch straight off the Golden Triangle-”

 

Akira snorts hard. “You’re such a newbie in this trade that you don’t even know that the Golden Triangle is only good for opium. Best cocaine comes from Colombia, brah.”

 

“As expected of the Suzuki’s brat,” one man whistles, while the host is fifty shades red from such slip-up.

 

“So,” Takanori starts slowly, “in exchange for our lives, we’ll help you, erm, upgrade its quality, so to speak. This way you’ll surpass the great Suzuki kingpin.”

 

“O-okay.” The host still looks at him suspiciously though Matsumoto knows he’s already got the man wrapped around his finger. “How do you go on about this?”

 

“First, everyone needs to take the ammo out of their guns and remove the bullets from their cartridge. You’ll need pliers for this.”

 

“And why’s that?” The boss cocks his eye.

 

“Because it’s the part of the upgrading process,” Akira quips.  

 

“Sounds like bullshit,” an underling comments.

 

“Well, we can’t proceed to the next step unless you do that.” Takanori shrugs nonchalantly. “Your loss.”

 

The men exchange knowing glances then turn to their boss, who seems to be having a dilemma right now. The host bites his lower lip in anxiety and then makes up his mind. “I guess, even unarmed, we can still tackle you down if you try something funny…” He signals his men to do what Takanori says.

 

Half an hour later, Matsumoto gathers all bullets in one pile at his feet.

 

Now he has effectively disarmed these men. Thank fuck, his opponent is so dimwitted and easily swayed.

 

“Now I need someone to bring me a spoon, baking soda and a glass pipe for smoking,” he relays to the boss, who immediately dispatches people to get those items for Takanori.

 

“What are all these for?” the boss addresses his question to Suzuki’s heir. Takanori feels even more hopeful at this seemingly innocent question, because it only consolidates his assumptions of this guy still being a total novice, unfamiliar with all types of drugs on the market and thus they would be able to pull this upcoming stunt.

 

Not that Matsumoto ever had a chance to try this drug out, but he’s pretty good at chemistry while Suzuki has the street knowledge of drug distribution.

 

“We’re concocting the devil’s brew that swept through NYC like a hurricane in the 80’s.” Akira smirks. “It’s known as 'crack', and its high triumphs that of the normal cocaine.”

 

“Crack?” The host furrows his brows. “I think I’ve heard of it, but never really seen it distributed in this area…”

 

“And that’s exactly your loss,” Akira points it out to him. “Your target group must be the rich ladies, who visit your club and can afford cocaine in its pure form. What about the rest of the people who live in this area? You’ve got to expand your client base, which can be done by selling crack that is cheaper than pure cocaine powder.”

 

“Fair enough,” the boss says, swallowing Suzuki’s words like God’s ten commandments. His men soon return with the items that Takanori requested.

 

“Let the magic begin.” Matsumoto grins, rubbing his palms together.

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Takanori tries not burst out laughing, seeing everyone’s attentive faces, when he explains to them that he needs the bullets for better heat transduction while he heats up the mixture of cocaine and baking soda in the spoon with Akira’s lighter. Before that, the host did question Takanori where the hell did he get the lighter from, to which the little one explained that he had ‘borrowed’ it from the baldy.

 

Thankfully, he instructed everyone to remove the actual lead out of its cartridge before he could use them for ‘cooking’, so as not to cause an explosion in this tiny room and blast them off this Earth as a result.

 

Akira has proven to be a great help, being familiar with the process, as the Suzuki elder has been bringing him on excursions to his drug laboratories ever since the blond was still wearing diapers.

 

Suzuki would add a pinch of coke and baking soda here and there, mumbling something under his breath, with a face of an academic that even Takanori is convinced that he knows his shit.

 

Their first batch comes out as success – according to Akira of course, since he’s the only one familiar with the drug.

 

“Now it’s time for you to try it out.” Akira puts a white rock inside the pipe and passes it to the host, who looks at it with a difficult expression on his face.

 

“I don’t really do drugs, you know.” The man eyes the pipe uneasily. “Only weed and coke every now and then.”

 

“That’s where you’re doing it wrong, my friend.” Akira chuckles. “You have to know your goods inside out.”

 

The host’s lips tremble slightly before they wrap around one end of the pipe, as Suzuki heats up the other end.

 

“Come on, it’s like taking a drag out of a cigarette,” Akira encourages him and almost squeals in delight when the man finally inhales the smoke and almost immediately coughs it out. Suzuki pats his back. “There-there, you’re going to feel the high soon.”

 

“Holy shit,” the host rasps, his pupils shortly becoming dilated. He nearly drops the pipe since his hands start to shake. The high is nearly instant, crashing into him like a tsunami, causing him to feel real giddy. “Holy fucking shit.”

 

“Told ya,” Akira giggles and then addresses the rest of the group. “You all need to try it out. Come on, don’t be pussies.”

 

And for the next fifteen minutes they get the rest of the host’s men high, to the point there’s so much smoke in this cramped room that both Takanori and Akira have to hold in their breath, not to inhale the potent smoke unnecessarily; because they need to be sober for the part to come.

 

The high has proven to be pretty intense since the thugs turn all jittery, unable to stay still – they would move their limbs excitedly, their minds unfocused as they ramble on things unrelated to the hostage situation.

 

That’s when Akira crouches to the ground and pulls the gun out of the stockings, and before everyone can figure out whether this is just a figment of their imagination, he presses the gun barrel right at the host’s temple.

 

“One wrong move and I’ll blow his brains out all over the wall,” Akira hisses menacingly.

 

 _More like all over me_ , Takanori is about to correct him but decides to keep silent, so as not to ruin this epic moment.

 

“Where’d ya got this g-gun from?” the host slurs his speech, holding his hands up in defeat, and almost hyperventilates, the high making him even more paranoid.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Takanori chirps. “Now, give us back our phones.”

 

“We have di-disposed of th-them,” one of the men informs them and nearly pees himself, seeing Akira frown.

 

“Then one of you be a good boy and call up this number,” Suzuki says and dictates his father’s number. When no one is yet to fish out their cellphone, Akira pushes the gun harder, causing the host to whimper and recoil slightly towards Takanori. “I’m going to count to three. One.”

 

“W-wait,” the host rasps.

 

“Two.”

 

“Wait!”

 

“Three-”

 

“DO WHAT HE SAYS!!” the boss screams hoarsely at his underlings, who scramble in their spots, fumbling for their phones. One of them asks Akira to repeat the number, which he gladly does.

 

“Are you happy now?” the host asks the duo through clenched teeth once his underling finishes with his call.

 

“Actually, not quite yet,” Takanori points out and then quickly disappears behind the door, only to return with a jerrycan later and douse the remaining cocaine with petrol under the pained moans and screams of the mob.

 

In the distance, there’s a loud sound of cars screeching and the tramp of Suzuki men’s feet.

 

“About damn time.” Matsumoto smirks and ignites the zippo.

______________________________________________________________________ 

 

Thankfully, the chief consultant has brought them change clothes, so Takanori can finally get himself out of this stupid, sticky unitard and wear decent clothes.

 

What a night.

 

During their ride back to the Suzuki estate, Matsumoto’s head still refuses to compute what the hell just happened – the previous adrenaline rush is completely gone, leaving him all confused unlike Akira, who’s been humming some cheery tune under his breath.

 

“Good job, boys. Not only did you manage to lure those ruffians out but also destroy their goods as well,” the advisor commends them.

 

Takanori has never thought that he had this courage in him: his sympathetic nervous system triggered the flight-or-fight response and chose the ‘fight’ option, which actually bore fruitful results.

 

He can’t wait to recount this to Shiroyama, but not before he throttles the elder to semi-death for putting him in this situation in the first place.

 

Yeah, sounds like a plan.

 

“It was pretty fun, don’t you think so?” Akira pipes up.

 

“When you finally get an upper hand, then yes.” Takanori chuckles. “It’s only fun when you know you ain’t gonna croak right there.”

 

“All thanks to your ingenious plan.” The blond gives his shoulder a light squeeze. “I’ve got to say that you’re going to make a better yakuza than most men out there.”

 

“Thanks?” Matsumoto isn’t sure if he should really appreciate this compliment, because never once has he aspired to become a goddamned criminal.

 

“Uh-huh. And I think it’d be better if you join our group.”

 

“No, thanks,” Takanori flat out refuses. He’s had enough of one night and isn’t quite ready to relive similar shenanigans anytime soon.

 

“Legit, bro. First of all, this host is probably just an underling of some other bigshot,” Suzuki says with a grin.

 

“Wait.” Takanori looks at him in confusion. “That means-”

 

“They gonna hunt you down,” the elder chirps.

 

Blood drains off Matsumoto’s face.

 

“Oh-”

 

“Also, you literally synthesised a drug and you think the cops will be ok with that?”

 

“My-”

 

“And became my accomplice when I threatened those fuckers.”

 

“Fucking-”

 

“Don’t forget that you set the whole warehouse aflame afterwards!”

 

“God.”

 

“So there’s no turning back for you.” Akira leans closer to him and gives Takanori a peck on his cheek. “Man, I think you should legit marry me, you know?”

 

Takanori just wants to bury himself into the ground. Him, becoming the yakuza boss’ partner? That’s fucking absurd!

 

He lets out a heavy sigh, palming his forehead in frustration.

 

“Did you save some cocaine from that warehouse?”

 

“Of course!” Akira grins, pointing at his crumpled underwear. “So wait, whaddya say? Will you marry me?”

 

Takanori takes in a deep breath.

 

“Three lines of coke and I’ll say ‘yes’.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) omiai - a semi (?) formal process, whereby parents try to matchmake their son/daughter with someone; not necessarily an arranged marriage since the son/daughter can still choose not to go for that person; however, outside Japan it's probs still known loosely as an arranged marriage. 
> 
> 2) chonmage - there's no way of describing this. just look it up lmao. 
> 
> 3) dogeza - a Japanese way of showing prostration, when someone kneels on the floor and bows while their head touches the floor.
> 
> 4) ochinchin - a cute, childish way of saying 'penis' lol
> 
> 5) ane-san - yakuza boss's wife
> 
> 6) kumicho - yakuza boss, head of the family
> 
> 7) saiko-komon - yakuza boss' right hand man, chief advisor 
> 
> 8) sakazuki exchange - the process of the exchanging sake cups (among yakuza) that sort of establishes the brotherhood between members


End file.
